


A Still Point

by LookingForDroids



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Comfort, F/F, POV Second Person, Sexual Fantasy, smut as character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24355078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookingForDroids/pseuds/LookingForDroids
Summary: She wants to know you, she says. To know something about you that you’ve never told anyone before.
Relationships: Folykl Darane/Marsti Houtek
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	A Still Point

You’re sitting on the floor of Marsti’s respiteblock with your arms wrapped around a pillow that smells like her, and she’s at your back with her hands combing through your hair, touching you in the only way that’s safe. She wants to know you, she says. To know something about you that you’ve never told anyone before. Which isn’t easy, because you met Kuprum first and there’s almost nothing you haven’t told each other, but there is one thing that you think about a lot and he doesn’t ever need to hear.

“So it goes like this,” you tell her, and she listens, shifting closer.

It goes like this: if you were fucking evil, which you’re not, and they weren’t inclined to cull the likes of you on sight, which they are, you could probably serve the Empire pretty damn well by telling them who should be a ship and who’d be good as a soldier and who’s lucky enough not to be worth wasting their time with. You’ve thought about this, and decided you’d just tell them _shit, shit, shit, especially shit, borderline mediocre,_ even if you were looking at lightning in the shape of a troll. They’d figure it out soon enough, but until they did, you’d be better than anyone else out there at getting golds and rusts off-planet safely. And maybe if you were really smart, you’d be able to tell when to cut and run, and when you did there’d be a small army of trolls out there who should have been ships and weren’t, and every single one of them would owe you for that.

It’s a stupid fantasy. You’re living with an expiration date set for the end of your ninth sweep, and there’s no getting around that. It’s still not the worst thing that happens to golds on their ascension day, so you’re not going to whine about it.

Marsti smooths back your hair – careful, always careful, but her fingers brush your face and you know that it was deliberate, because she never does anything that isn’t.

“Go on,” she says, low in your ear. You can sense her there behind you, body heat and latent energy mingling until they’re almost impossible to differentiate. Her breath tickles your skin, and if you leaned back, you’d be touching her, your back against her chest, your head resting on her sturdy shoulder. And she’d let you, is the thing. Not for long, but long enough to chase a bit of the dull, cold ache from your muscles, and to get a sense of what she feels like – not the dim impression she leaves on the psionic heat-map of your vision, but her.

You don’t lean back. You hug the pillow you’re holding a little tighter, feeling a shiver run through you despite the summer heat. Doesn’t matter. Kuprum will be around to pick you up before it gets bad, and once in while, the privacy is worth it.

“I mean, you can guess where it goes from there,” you say.

It’s kind of embarrassingly tame, really. Most of what you’re into is, to the point that you have to make shit up when you and Kuprum have one of your contests about who can freak the other one out first. So you’ve got a psionic gangbang thing. Big deal. You’re pretty sure the only reason most trolls with voidrot don’t end up with a bit of a psionic gangbang thing is that most trolls with voidrot don’t survive to sexual maturity. Maybe that’s why you feel your face go hot and your chest go tight now that it’s time to actually say it, and never mind that scaring the normies is pretty much your full-time job. Maybe it’s who you’re saying it to.

“I can guess,” she says. “I still want to hear you say it.”

“They fuckin’ rail me,” you say, and she laughs, but it’s not mocking. Maybe a little breathless. She shifts behind you, tugs on a lock of your hair, and says, “Do they?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Unless I’m lazy instead of horny, and then they’re just lounging around in harem pants feeding me fancy beetles or some shit while I drink shitty soda from a golden chalice.”

“But you’re not feeling lazy right now, are you?” she says. The tip of her claw traces a line along your hip, tantalizingly slow, and if you weren’t so tired right now, you’d be pretty damn worked up. You’re kind of getting there anyway, pressing your thighs together around the beginning of a tight, insistent heat that leaves you wondering how much you’d regret it if you pushed your body a little further than it’s really got the energy to go. But you want to touch her so much more than you want to touch yourself, and that’s not happening no matter how much of an idiot you feel like being, so you do the next best thing and keep on talking.

“Nah. Right now,” you say, and take a moment to catch your breath. “Right now, what I’m doing is leaning back in some gold girl’s arms, and she’s pushing my legs open so she can get inside me, and she’s just. White-hot. Fucking destroyer-class, sparks everywhere she touches. There’s another one on top of me, and he’s all up in my nook too, and they’re _both_ bifurcated. That’s like. Four bulges, all at once. I am a goddamn champion at taking it.”

“I bet you are,” Marsti says, her voice gone slightly rough, and just the sound of it leaves you aching in a way that has nothing to do with voidrot.

“And that’s all I need to do. Let them pin me down and just take it. Drink it all in.”

That’s the thing you focus on when it’s only you, that feeling of being caught between bodies hot and bright as binary suns, reverent and relentless, filling you up until you forget what it’s like to be empty. For her, you dig into the details – the hands gripping your horns and teeth scraping your skin, the sweat and spit and the streaks of gold and rust all up your abdomen, playing up the mess because this is her and you just know she’s got some kind of fetish. She’s got one hand in your hair still, and the other – she’s no destroyer-class, but she’s not so weak that you can’t tell what she’s doing with the other, down between her legs and pressing down hard, right above the place where her bulge emerges. It’s the hottest thing you can imagine, the fact that she’s doing that and the fact that you’re the one doing it to her, with nothing more than your voice and the things that cycle through your mind when it’s late in the day and you can’t hold yourself back from dreaming. But maybe that’s what it is about you that gets to her – she knows what it’s like to want what the universe will never allow her, and know it’s stupid, and keep on wanting it anyway.

“Kuprum’s there too. He get to watch and cry about what what a fucking cuck he is,” you say, because the whole ‘Rails With Pails gig tends to freak the normies out even if that’s not exactly how it is between the two of you, and maybe you want to shock her a little, just to see if she even can be shocked. Because it’s the closest you can come to saying _He’s there with me. I saved him too._

Maybe she hears it anyway. Maybe something about how quiet your voice goes gives you away, because her arms wrap around you from behind and she doesn’t say anything, just holds you tight. You’re surrounded by the smell of her, soap and sweat and clean cloth, and you sink for a moment into the sensation of her heat bleeding through your skin – but that means it’s bleeding out of her, so you shrug her off, no matter how much more you want. She doesn’t press the issue. She isn’t shocked, either, just quiet, subdued until you say her name. And then she grips your hair hard, leans in close, and whispers, “Tell me how filthy you are at the end of it.”

There’s a hitch in her breath when she says that word, _filthy,_ a tightness in her voice that bypasses your thinkpan and overrides fatigue with a higher-priority signal, dragging you back from the universe that can’t be into the universe that is.

“Drenched,” you say. “Fucking ruined. I’ve got slurry in my hair, and I’m so charged up I can hardly think, and everything is – everything is OK. For as long as I need it to be.”

You hadn’t meant to say that part. It sounds small and weak out loud, but it’s part of the scene, and something tells you that it needed to be said. Marsti’s claws are light in your hair, and she still isn’t laughing.

“Which means,” she says, “that when all that’s over with, you’re going to need someone to clean you up. Carry you to the ablutionblock, scrub you down until your skin stings, wash your hair...”

“Take advantage?”

“So much advantage.” She says it like a promise, and with every word, she taps her fingertips along the nape of your neck, bright little points of energy that flare and vanish like distant explosions. _You’re here,_ the feeling says. _It’s now. Let it be now for a little longer._ You’re bound up in your physical body, aching and tired and stupidly turned-on, and for once, you don’t want to be anywhere else.

“You gonna... elaborate on that?” you ask. “Or do I have to keep doing all the work?”

“Sure,” she says. Just that, followed by a beat of stillness as you breathe in and the world goes quiet around you. Then she leans forward, the length of her body pressing hot against your back for one sharply defined moment, just long enough for her to reach around and steal your pillow. You’re about to protest that, even if it’s technically her pillow and you’re the one who stole it first, until she lays it in her lap and tugs you down to rest, curled up, with the back of her fingertips stroking your cheek. Maybe you’ll reach down, wrap your hand around your bulges, see how much this body of yours can take. Maybe you’ll just lie there for a while and let things be OK.

“C’mere,” she says. “Let me tell you what happens next.”


End file.
